Je L'aime à Mourir
by Piyo13
Summary: "Jeanne... je t'aime à mourir, Jeanne. Je t'aime à mourir..." AU!, FrancisxJeanne d'Arc


The room is small, dimly lit, and rather crowded. The smell of cigarette smoke fills the air, a bitter, but oddly sweet scent at the same time.

"Hey, Francis!" The blond turns his head, looking at where his friends are standing. It's almost show time.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Francis mutters, taking one more drag from his cigarette before snuffing out in the closest ashtray. He winks at the girl whose table it is, eliciting a small blush as a response, before sauntering past her and up onto the make-shift stage (it was in reality a lifted section of the floor; if anyone knew why or how it was so, those details had not been divulged with the Frenchman).

Antonio does some last-minute tuning to his guitar, strumming chords while turning the silver knobs. Gilbert, his other best friend, already has his bass guitar ready and is now adjusting the height of the microphone. Next to Francis' drums, a small electric piano is set up, though not by choice (Roderich had been convinced to come and play only under pain of Gilbert- gasp- _touching_ his spotless Grand Piano, which is, for the moment, safely resting at home underneath a thick blanket). Needless to say, Roderich isn't too pleased at finding himself in a 'smoky, stuffy, too-crowded _bar_', but Gilbert has promised him that it will be the only time they need him (Gilbert's brother, Ludwig, normally plays the piano, but seeing as he is currently visiting his exchange-student-turned-lover, incidentally a good friend of Francis', in Italy at the moment, hasty substitutions have had to be made).

Francis sits down behind his drum set, giving a few cursory whacks here and there to make sure everything is in order. Gilbert had played it last song, and that always requires making sure that everything is in order (he and Gilbert, more-or-less equally skilled in both bass and drums, often switch off instruments in order to sing). On Gilbert's singal, he starts the beat.

_Babumbumchu. Babumbumchu. Babumbumchu._

Then the bass joins in, with the guitar and piano coming in soon after and providing the melody. And lastly, Gilbert's (rather nice) voice.

_"So Still, dass jeder von uns wusste, das hier ist, für immer, für immer und ein Leben_

_und es war so still, dass jeder von uns ahnte, hierfür gibt's kein Wort, das jemals das _

_Gefühl beschreiben kann..."_

As soon as Gilbert begins to sing, the crowd (or rather, part of the crowd) lets out a cheer. It is, after all, a very popular and well-liked song. Francis catches himself before drifting off into thought, and focuses on the beat.

_Babumbumchu. Babumbumchu. _

And in the background, Gilbert's singing, "_Ich hab so viel gehört und doch kommt's niemals bei mir an, das ist der Grund, warum ich nachts nicht schlafen kann, wenn ich auch tausend Lieder vom Vermissen schreib', heisst das noch nicht, dass ich versteh, warum dieses Gefühl für immer bleibt._" Soon the song comes to an end, and the crowd cheers- beer glasses clinking to signal approval.

Francis smiles to himself, then prepares for the next song. _Badabumbum. Badabumbum. _

They play at least eight more songs (it's getting kind of late, isn't it?) before they decide to bring their show to an end. The crowd (at this point significantly thinned) looks expectantly (at least, the part that isn't completely drunk does) towards the makeshift stage as Francis leaves the drum set and takes Gilbert's place in front of the microphone, while the black-and-white-bass-armed albino shifts to the side. After a moment's adjustment, the microphone is at the right level (Francis is a few centimeters taller than Gilbert, after all), and Francis looks to the spectators.

He takes a deep breath, and signals to the others to start playing the gentle melody. This is Francis' favorite song in the whole world. He begins to sing, the French lyrics soft on his tongue as the words slide out of his mouth. "_Moi je n'étais rien, et voilà qu'aujourd'hui, je suis le gardien, du sommeil de ses nuits, je l'aime à mourir_..."

He remembers, as vividly as ever, the first time he'd ever heard the song. Her eyes, brightly shining as she held out the headphones to him, urging him to just listen. "_...vous pouvez détruire, tout ce qu'il vous plaira, elle n'a qu'à ouvrir, l'espace de ses bras, pour tout reconstruire, pour tout reconstruire, je l'aime à mourir._.." 

He remembers her beautiful smile, the way her eyes closed almost to slits as her cheeks bunched up. He remembers her laugh, to which no music could compare. He remembers her sweetness, the way she would pick up injured creatures she encountered on the streets, bring them home to nurse them to health. _"...elle a bâti des ponts, entre nous et le ciel, et nous les traversons, à chaque fois qu'elle, ne veut pas dormir, ne veut pas dormir, je l'aime à mourir._.."

But he also remembers that night. That fateful night, that late-night drunk. It had been their 3-year anniversary. He had taken her to London. Of course Paris was more beautiful, but they had lived there. So London it was. And it had been beautiful. He'd ridden the ferris wheel with her. Visited Buckingham Palace, taken a walk along the Thames, even if it wasn't as beautiful as the Seine. And then. ...and then. _"...elle a dû faire toutes les guerres, pour être si forte aujourd'hui, elle a dû faire toutes les guerres, de la vie, et l'amour aussi_..."

And then that night had happened. Stupidly drunk, the driver. Too madly in love to notice that the car had hopped onto the curb, Francis. He'd tried to save her, he really had. But, or so the doctors had told him, the internal damage was too much for her. Francis had waited by her bedside that night. "..._elle porte des rubans, qu'elle laisse s'envoler, elle me chante souvent, que j'ai tort d'essayer, de les retenir, de les retenir, je l'aime à mourir_..."

That long, eternal night. Through the sudden fever, that had made her hands so warm it was as though they were on fire. Through the coughing which had resulted in blood on the formerly spotless sheets. Through the pained look in her eyes, through the pain of knowing that he, Francis, was, there and then, completely and utterly helpless. "..._pour monter dans sa grotte, cachée sous les toits, je dois clouer des notes, à mes sabots de bois, je l'aime à mourir, je dois juste m'asseoir, je ne dois pas parler, je ne dois rien vouloir, je dois juste essayer, de lui appartenir, de lui appartenir, je l'aime à mourir_..."

And, his last, precious memory of her: the soft smile on her bloody lips, the whispered, barely audible last words. "..._vous pouvez détruire, tout ce qu'il vous plaira, elle n'aura qu'à ouvrir, l'espace de ses bras, pour tout reconstruire, pour tout reconstruire, je l'aime à mourir._.."

_I'm sorry, Francis. Je suis desolé. _Francis finishes the song, and is surprised to feel a tear running down his cheek. He wipes it quickly away as the still-coherent parts of the crowd applaud. Silent, Francis helps to pack away all the instruments.

"It's been a year, hasn't it?" Francis abruptly jolts out of his zoned state, shocked gaze resting on Antontio's sympathetic face. "I'll finish cleaning up here, you can go," the Spaniard adds. Francis nods, a lump in his throat, and makes to move off. "You sang very well, by the way," Antonio says, then waves Francis off.

Francis makes his way to his car, drives to the small apartment he calls home. He goes inside quickly, heading straight to the giant pot of lilies he grows on the balcony. He cuts off the three most beautiful, ties them together with a lilac ribbon. Walking back through his apartment, Francis only stops to pull out a bottle of wine (Pinot Noir, 2009) and two wine glasses off the shelves. Then back to his car.

It's about half an hour driving to the graveyard. The white reflections of the moon on headstones guide Francis to the one headstone in particular that he most wants to, and most doesn't want to, see. It is small, white marble; an angel, elegant folded wings and crooked arms, as if waiting to hold something. Francis neatly sets the flowers between its arms. It had been the friend of Francis' that had sculpted the gravestone. Feliciano had heard of the accident, and small Italian had set to work the very day. A week later, the funeral was held.

Francis runs a hand over a marble cheek. The angel has been sculpted with such skill and likeness that Francis can almost pretend that she is really there, really standing there in front of him.

Almost.

He kneels down in front of the grave, sends a quick prayer up to God. It's funny; he'd never believed in God before. She had always been the believer, the person who went to chuch almost every Sunday. But now she's gone, and increasingly Francis finds himself inside churches. Never during mass, no; just inside of a church, praying and admiring the architecture.

He finishes his prayer, running his fingers across the name carved into the angel's pedestel: _Jeanne d'Arc_. Tears begin to run down his cheeks, and in the deserted graveyard, Francis makes no move to brush them away. He turns to the bottle of wine, opening it and pouring two glasses full of the dark ruby liquid.

One he places at the foot of the statue. Then, his back leaning against the side of the gravestone, Francis raises the second glass to the moon.

"Jeanne..." he says. The tears are back now, and in full force. "To you, Jeanne," he says, and takes a large sip. It's delicious, which just makes his pain even harder to bear. It's as if his very heart is being chopped into tiny pieces, only to be thrown into a fire. She would have loved the wine, he thinks. He takes another sip, but his tears are mixing with the wine, and now there's a salty tinge on his tongue where there shouldn't be.

"Jeanne... je t'aime à mourir, Jeanne. Je t'aime à mourir..."

Francis sits, alone, in the graveyard, drinking salty wine and watching white lilies reflect moonbeams until morning, when Antonio and Gilbert come to pick him up.

He would have stayed longer if he could have.

*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*

_A/N: Well. That was sadder than I originally planned. The bar in which they sing is based off of one of the bars that I've been to frequently. The song that Gilbert sings is __**Still, **__by __**Jupiter Jones.**__ The one that Francis is singing is called __**Je l'aime à mourir**__, by __**Francis Cabrel**__ (Ironic in the naming, he?). I __**HIGHLY RECOMMEND**__ looking up and listening to both of these songs (they can be found on YouTube), especially __**Je l'aime à mourir**__ (it's a wonderful song and listening to it will give you a better feel for this fic!)  
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_"Je l'aime à mourir" means "I love (her) to death". What Francis says at the end, "Je t'aime à mourir" means "I love you to death". _

_I hope you enjoyed!_


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